


John Laurens expects a lot of things

by Jo_busch_got_booty



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:32:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jo_busch_got_booty/pseuds/Jo_busch_got_booty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Laurens expects a lot of things, but Hamilton can always catch him off guard, even if it means midnight runs to McDonalds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Laurens expects a lot of things

John Laurens expects a lot of things. He expects to see people walking their dogs, he expects to watch Netflix when he gets some downtime. He expects there to be more presidential elections, and that the sun will set, and that it might rain tomorrow. However, John Laurens does not expect his doorbell to ring at half-past two in the morning when the only lights in his apartment are his alarm clock and the little bulb on the coffee pot promising that there will be fresh coffee waiting for him when he wakes up in the morning.

 

“John, wake up!” He hears someone call from outside the front door. They sound like they’re  trying to be quiet. They’re doing a bad job of it.

 

John rolls out of bed, keeping his blankets wrapped around him like a cape, and stumbles to the front door, weary with sleep. He fumbles with the lock, not bothering to open his eyes. It will be dark either way, and he is more comfortable with them closed. “Alexander?” he asks, “Why are you at my door?”

 

“I need someone to go to McDonalds with,” he says, “I tried to get Lafayette to go with me, but he just kept repeating ‘ _Casse Toi’_ and locked me out of his apartment. Mulligan was sleeping on the couch. I think they got into a fight.”

 

“That’s… wow yeah, that’s great, Alex.” John’s mouth is dry. “I’m second choice and I get woken up at two in the morning.”

 

“I’m sorry, should I go?” Alexander sounds nervous, and John shakes his head, resigned.

 

“No, no. So long as you’re driving… sure, we’ll go.”

 

“Do you want to grab a coat? It’s cold out there?”

 

“You aren’t understanding me, Alexander,” John answers, “I am not taking my blankets off. If we’re going to McDonalds, I am going like this.”

 

“Are you going to open your eyes?”

 

“No.”

 

“You live on the third floor.”

 

“We’ll take the elevator.” Alexander takes his arm. He doesn’t want John to fall.

 

John doesn’t process most of the drive. He is fairly sure Alex is not driving to the closest McDonalds, but instead the one across town. He decides not to question this because at least he can rest his eyes and doze off to the sound of Alex muttering to himself feverishly. At first, John tries to hone in, but Alex only voices half of the conversation with himself aloud, and most of it seems scrambled, and out of order. It was like listening to a conversation through a wall with a stethoscope.

Alex is a good driver. The ride is smooth, and John can feel him swerving gently around potholes. And then the ride is suddenly brought to a halt. Alex slams on the brakes violently, and John ragdolls forward, the seat belt latching into place across his chest.

 

“Okay, I’m pissed off!” Alex announces, and Laurens sighs. Realizing he isn’t going to get any more sleep, he pulls his phone from his pocket.

 

“What are you pissed off about, Alex?”

 

“Adams! I mean, the guy doesn’t even have a real job. Sure, he _used_ to be president. Now he thinks he’s all high and mighty…” John manages to tune Alex out, and instead, he chooses to shoot Lafayette some strongly worded text messages.

 

To: Baguette Baby

_Ok I swear to god Lafayette I’m going to show up at your house one night and slam a shitton of pots and pans together over your bed all night_

 

From: Baguette Baby

_Can we discuss why you want to keep me from my beauty sleep at a reasonable hour in the morning_

 

To: Baguette Baby

_Absolutely not you’re the reason I am being driven to McDonalds right now. If I’m awake, so are you._

 

“And you know how I feel about my mom! Bringing snow into the discussion was uncalled for!” Alex is still going when John looks up again.

 

“You’re totally right,” John agrees. He briefly wonders if maybe he wants context. He decides he doesn’t.

 

“I mean, God! It was one time! It was my first winter here, I grew up in the Caribbean, and then he has to go and bring my mom up! I didn’t know how cold it was going to be.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

John’s phone vibrates in his hand.

 

From: Baguette Baby

_non non, amie. Herc and I took the last midnight shift_

 

To: Baguette Baby

_Do u know how many midnight shifts I took before he even met u 2_

 

From: Baguette Baby

_non, and I don’t care_

 

Alex is, unsurprisingly, still rambling. Now, though, there is another voice in the mix, one drowning in static.

 

“Uh… sir, what would you like to order?” Alex is still nearly shouting about how his mother would never do that with snow, and it takes John’s groggy mind a few moments to process the fact that they’re sitting in the drive-thru lane of McDonalds.

 

“Alex.”

 

“I mean, the audacity of a man who had his fifteen minutes of fame, and then drowned it out with an hour of shame!’

 

“Alex.”

 

“And then he talks like I’m the one who royally screwed my career. _I_ made a comeback.’

 

“Alexander.”

 

“He acts like he’s some kind of hero to this country, like no one could ever fill his shoes. We should get Washington to run again, that would teach hi--”

 

“ _Alexander Hamilton!”_ Alex finally stops talking, and turns to look at John. Appeased, John asks, “What do you want to eat?”

 

Alex’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks at John as if he’s suddenly grown two extra heads and started salivating green slime. “To eat?” He repeats, as if the concept were foreign to him. As if, perhaps, they weren’t sitting in a drive-thru lane while a poor, underpaid worker had to listen to him complain about former president John Adams. John wonders if this is the norm for the worker.

 

Instead of explaining the seemingly obvious situation to his friend, John leans over Alex. “I’ll have a quarter pounder,” he says, “no onions. And then an order of larger fries-- but like separate from the burger.”

 

His order is repeated back to him the way John expects it to be. There’s a mistake, just like John expects there to be, and when John sits back in his seat, Alex still looks confused. “Right,” he says. “McDonalds.”

 

“McDonalds,” John agrees.

 

Alex, dutifully, pays. The woman behind the counter doesn’t ask about John Adams, Alex’s mom, or snow, and as they pull away, John snags fries from the order that isn’t his. He considers it payment for the midnight journey. Alex keeps talking, but this time, John is focused on eating.

 

“What do you think  Laf and Mulligan fought about?” Alex has to ask the question twice, because at first John doesn’t realize he’s being directly addressed. He’s become accustomed to only half-listening to Hamilton’s tangents.

 

“Who knows,” Laurens responds around a mouthful of fry. It’s from his order this time. “Maybe Mulligan was already there and he fell asleep.”

 

“Seems unlikely. He’s a really fussy sleeper.” They pull up to a stop sign, smoothly this time. “I mean, when we were in college he could only sleep when the room totally dark, when he had five pillows on his bed, when there was no sound whatsoever.”

 

“It’s been awhile since college. Things change.” John yawns. “For example, I don’t fall asleep while pouring my coffee in the morning anymore. People can adjust.”

 

“It still seems unlikely. Why else would Lafayette be in such a crabby mood if…” Alex trails off, and John looks up.

 

He’s about to ask ‘ _if what?’_ when he realizes he no longer has his friend’s attention. Alex is staring at something, or someone, intently. In the mirror, John can see that he’s giving someone the death glare. John hesitates for one, two, three seconds before following his gaze. Somehow, he is not surprised.

 

Thomas Jefferson is in the Kia beside them. He’s rummaging through his glove compartment, presumably in search of a pack of cigarettes. It’s a habit he never quite kicked. Alex complains he always smells like smoke.

 

‘oh man,’ John thinks, and silently he begs the light to turn green. There’s no traffic on this road so late at night, there’s no reason for the light to still be a horrific shade of red. And yet…

 

Jefferson must feel like he’s being watched, because he turns. John sees his mouth open in a cry of surprise that he can’t hear through two layers of car windows. Before John can say something, Alex’s window is rolling down. He makes a crude gesture with his hand.

 

“FUCK YOU, JEFFERSON!” He announces, and John slouches down in his seat, hoping that Thomas was too focused on Hamilton to notice him in the background. It isn’t that he likes Jefferson, but he doesn’t want to be a variable in this midnight drive by. The light turns green, and Alex begins forward again as if nothing had happened. He begins a new rant.

 

John pulls out his phone.

 

To: Baguette Baby

_I cannot believe Alexander Hamilton is a real person_


End file.
